To the Children of Syria (from my safe distance)

                               To the Children of Syria 
                        (from my safe distance)


In whose name they allow themselves to hurt you?
To what end?  To what beginning?  
Have they said as much to you?
Have they counted your tears?
Have they wiped your fears?

From my safe distance I see a tear
in frozen moments and muted fear
among the smoke 
in the rubbles  
Tiny hands clinching
tiny legs racing  
from them 
to them

In whose name they allow themselves to hurt you?
Slogans your tender minds discard
Gestures your tiny big hearts deride  
Silent prosecution
and a noisy salutation
Have they counted those tears? 

From my safe distance I see a tear
a horizon away
from a warm embrace
a touch
a smile
a hug
Did they count those tears?
Did they wipe those fears?

From my safe distance I hear the silence
yours and theirs
canceling each other
forever
Now in Syria

From my safe distance I hear the chant 
for a peace 
that will come
paid 
with your tears
your fears
little ones
Now in Syria

From my safe distance I drop one
or two
for you
little ones
As I did before 
in Basra
and Gaza
Now in Syria

From my safe distance I wonder
now and forever
what have you done to deserve this?
in whose name can anyone answer?
in whose name can anyone muster?
the might to wipe
tiny smiles
hearts 
and tears
In whose eyes can they look counting those tears?

From my safe distance I decree
Now in Syria
innocence is being exchanged
for a past 
for a future
only the little ones can see
despite the smoke
and rubbles
where tears are counted in pairs
and fears
like my safe distance
in light years.

"My Tribute to the Teacher: Fahim Qubain (1924-2012)"

           "My Tribute to the Teacher: Fahim Qubain (1924-2012)"

Heroes and giants amongst us come from near and from afar, across time and space, big and small. They respond to a calling often only they seem to hear and see, while resonating to those needs and aspirations fewer still hold high and dear.  They see beyond the tear and hear beyond the fear.  They see hope where many see despair, tire, and futility. They love when love becomes scarce, impure, and mobile. It has been said that a teacher ("ustaz") is almost a prophet; this is one of those few precious, archiac sayings that must be true. 

Ustaz Fahim, I first met you with that same big smile I see today in my mind's eye.  Little I knew though of the big heart that big smile belonged and returned home to, day after day, after every success and every failure, and after every seed of hope tucked in and lullabied.  Little I knew that I was in the presence of a hero we now celebrate - forgive me, Ustaz.  What I unmistakably saw also was a man who belonged, a man who cared. A man filled with paternal care, with its sweet but tough tenderness. A man who traversed both holy and less-than-holy lands, and who saw holy and less-than-holy injustices.  A man who saw wrong as transient, and right as inevitable as this celebration, this passing, this moment.      

Ustaz Fahim, your journey was long and arduous.  On those parts which I have had the pleasure and honor of witnessing and interacting with you, they seemed alive, colorful, and purposeful.   In and through those fleeting encounters-reflected in your eyes, I could see the color of hope.  Where black and white no longer dominated, no longer dictated.  They became like the others - mere colors. Hope has a color after all, I was taught by Ustaz Fahim. A color like no other, however.  For hope is seeing hope after the dream.  Hope is knowing the road continues after the turn which we cannot see. Beyond the distances which we cannot travel.  Beyond the time which we cannot survive.  Beyond the hearts which we cannot soften.  And, beyond the many injustices which we cannot understand.     

Ustaz Fahim, you have achieved what many of us can only dream of. When Gibran asked, "What destiny will the giants bring the world at the end of their struggles?", Gibran was asking you, Ustaz Fahim; for you, like giants do, have changed the lives of many.  You have made real what was not. You have made alive what was not. You have given so much and shared so dear. For us, the disinherited, whether here in this mahjar or another, you have written the chapter in our enduring saga on love, dedication and vision, amid the rubbles of disinheritance and despair.   Ustaz Fahim, we now understand, "fahmein," like you did.  We now feel like you did.  We now see like you did. This hope that you have breathed life onto, yet once again, cannot but go on, just like that legacy that is "Fahim Qubain." 

                                                                             May 6, 2012

"Consolation for a Silly Day" By Nazik al-Malaika, translated (1980, California)

                                     "Consolation for a Silly Day"


Darkness is approaching from the endless horizon
another strange day is gone
its echoes gone to the caves of memories
and tomorrow shall go as well
just like my life
a thirsting lip and a cup
its bottom reflecting the color of its smell
and when my lips touch it
joy of remembrance they shall not find
pieces, remnants they shall not find

The strange day is gone
it's gone and even the guilts wept
and I wept
and the silly things I call memories wept
it's gone and nothing is left except
the memory of a melody
screaming from the deepest core of me
conosoling all but me
for a  life, for a day of my youth
that is lost
in the valley of the mirages
in the fog

It was a day of my life
lost, I found it
where the pieces of my youth were heaped
where the hill of memories
atop thousands of hours were wandering
in the fog
and in the aisles of departing nights

It was a strange silly day
for the clock to strike and count
moments and days that were never mine
it was a horrible interrogation
for the torn up remnants of my past
by the grave of dead hope
beyond the years and myself

It was a strange silly day till the evening
the hours passed in hidden tears
passed till the evening
when a voice I had lost called me
while darkness stared at the horror
of the horizon
and when all my pains and guilts were gone
and the voice was gone
darkness carried its echoes 
away, from heart's eyes
and nothing is left but
memories and the echoes of a strange day
that like my weaknesses will never return

                                  * * * * 

"Trophies" By Nazik al-Malaika, translated (1980, California)

                                                   "Trophies"

Pass by, if you wish, visionless wordless
pass by, with deepest of the slow silence within you
and the face of the Sphinx carried by you
dragging the ordeals of a heart of ice
be, if you wish, taseless
be, if you wish, autumn
oh! but...throw a shadow

And let your eyes stretch like a horizon
with no light
and fill the universe with the empty laughter of idiots
and never understand the tears
then close your eyes despite pride
and let them be emptiness
a horizon away from any meaning
oh! but...give a colour

And let your past be dead
and hidden by the years and mud
no passion in your heart
but traces of disgraced feelings
let your love be gone with yesterday
oh! but...save a memory

And let the shadow of tomorrow
be death and darkness
and let us live every wound
while time sucks the bones
and leaves them in ruins
let tomorrow be black fog
oh! but...give a dream

Let the secrets of the humiliated past be revealed
and to all eyes legends are exposed
and what time had concealed
were remnants with no structure
let it be clear as never before
oh! but...keep a secret

Let you be a travelling spirit
in a painful silence
with childhood dreams torn by vengeance
of an old wound
and be gone to damn every star and horizon
and melt the night into cups of poison 
let you be remnants with no trace
not even within yourself
oh! but...redeem a heart

In the horror of the night
we have lost the path of tomorrow
and forgotten the serenity of two hearts
of a near yesterday
listen to the whisper of guilts
in a universal silence
and take, if you wish, the cup
and spill what is left
oh! but...save a drop.


                                        * * * *

"Myths" By Nazik al-Malaika, translated (1980, California)

                                      "Myths"

They said life
is the color of dead eyes
is the footsteps of a killer in disguise
and it's wrinkled days
are poisoned garment that shouts of death
and our dreams
are the smiles in ailing eyes
that await their end

They said hope
is the pout of thirsting lips
that taste water in the cup
in a painting on the wall
is the sad wing of the single bird
who circles his fallen nest, and waits
for morning and miracle
that will turn the pieces into home

They said silence
is the stupid myth brought by nobody
that listens with both ears and then
leaves his soul hidden beneath the ashes
the screams of fences that he heard not
and pieces of torn paper, dust
chairs of ancient rooms, and glass
covered with webs of an aging spider
and a coat hung on the wall

They said youth,
but when I asked they spoke of years
that when they come fog escapes
and they spoke of a heaven
behind a mirage
and of an oasis
that when I reached I found the dreams of tomorrow
crucified at the slammed door
of the oasis

They said eternity,
I found it a shadow lying chill
over the cemeteries where life contracts
I found it a word on singing lips
damning their past
singing and dying frivolously 
thay said eternity, I found nothing but death

They said and said
thoughts the winds took up
where death tracks the dull words
the tired who never rest
the lost who nowhere will ever get
that said and I said and nothing to say
such a myth is imagination's irony

                                   * * * *

"The Enemies" By Nazik al-Malaika, translated (1980, California)

                                    "The Enemies"

We are enemies then
from a world without feelings
that does not understand the song of the eyes
the eyes that have no secrets,
and love is a story that is told
of a yesterday that is embraced
by soil and hatred

We are enemies then
vast worlds apart
with lost and vague limits
that make our roads impossible,
but through the long dry ages
we walk
searching for the gate
seduced by our fading love
to the desert

We are enemies then
memories sleeping deep within us
confused paralyzed and lost
shadowed by hatred
and stripped of every shape
and the spell of days
in pieces left every dream

We are enemies then
though by dreams we are bound
dreams from a past left behind
and things forgotten and empty eyes
on fading faces and no sound
like a distant star
receding in the dark

We are enemies then
though with passion we are filled
awake but yet
worlds apart
worlds we feel and know
like the dead beneath the humiliated soil
feel the steps and noise
of life above

                                      * * * * 

"The Beautiful" By Nazik al-Malaika, translated (1980, California)

                                            "The Beautiful"

Crying beyond distances beyond the land
letting your hair fall your hands your tears
against the pillow
why do you cry? Does a beautiful cry?
did they not give you the melodies and songs?
did they not not feed you the letters?
did they spare the words?
oh! beautiful, what the tears for then?

We spared not each lip
to describe your wounds
the description that hurt us and our ears
and when you carried the heavy chains
and thirsty lips longed to a drop of water
and gathered the themes
then said we
shall sing for her
along the nights

Then said we
they made her drink blood with flame
they crucified her on the woods of a cross
while we sang for heroism
"we shall save her"
"we shall save her"
and drowned beyond the horizon of "shall"
amongst the glittering words
and we woke
"long live the beautiful"
"long live the beautiful"

We adored and melted in her smiles
the beauty of the love that chains killed
shall we feed our words
with meanings from her wounds?
is this a place for songs?
hence songs will be shame
and shame let them be
and let them melt against
the nobel wounds of hers

They made her carry the wounds of knives
while we made her carry the wounds of distant
meanings with smiles
oh, shame shame
of the wounds of a beautiful 
   
                                                    * * * *